


Flourish

by Hakyeonsmelanin



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Love Confessions, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Depression, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:07:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24882040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hakyeonsmelanin/pseuds/Hakyeonsmelanin
Summary: The first time you lay eyes upon Armin, you can’t help but pity him.
Relationships: Armin Arlert/Reader
Comments: 10
Kudos: 79





	Flourish

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MoonlitDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonlitDragon/gifts).



  
The first time you lay eyes upon Armin, you can’t help but pity him.  


  
He sticks out like a sore thumb and in all the wrong ways: small and spindly where others are tall and thick-set; all shadow and insecurity where those around him are bright and confident, nervously hunched in as everyone around him straightens out in self-assuredness.  


  
He’s the sole weed in a garden of flowers. As the flowers grow in their own tentative, beautiful way, he will remain stagnant—a dark, ugly thing that corrupts the integrity of the land.  


  
One day, someone will have to dig their fingers deep into the soil that grounds him and yank him out.  


  
He will never flourish, you think to yourself, as you watch him cross his arms in salute—eyes fierce and blue.  


~

  
You were right, it seems. The boy is so physically unimpressive that he’s almost more amusing than pitiful, at this point. He’s weak and uncoordinated as well as slow to react. His stature is meagre, being all skin and bones—as though he could count every meal he’s ever eaten on his hands. But despite his anatomy, you find that what damns him is his unendurably anxious disposition.  


  
He trembles with an unspoken unease, something that is bone-deep and flows freely in his blood. You wonder if it’s a product of the trauma he has faced? Broken walls and bloodied streets, splintered bone and chunks of flesh—it all seems like a distant nightmare and yet for him, it is a reality.  


  
He’s nothing like his friends. The Ackerman girl, who carries a quiet albeit bestial strength about herself, and the Yaeger boy, who compensates for what he lacks in strength through red-hot passion and iron resolve. What does Armin have? Other than his stupidly tremulous fingers and mild mannered tone?  


  
~~There is something within you that wants to find out.~~  


  
”We’re sparring partners.” He tells you with a light smile and you don’t respond because _you already know_.  


  
You position your feet into fighting stance, balancing your weight evenly across your body. He speaks up once more.  


  
”Please,” Armin begins carefully. It seems as though he does everything carefully. “—Don’t take it easy on me.”  


  
He must be referring to the last match he had. You’d noticed that the boy in front of you, a blond named Reiner who insists on acting as though he’s everyone’s estranged older brother, had taken a lighter, more instructional approach to this sparring session. Stupidly, sweetly, he focused on Armin’s improvement as opposed to his own, wasting his own valuable time and giving the smaller boy pointers on how to floor the next person he’d be paired with.  


  
As if you’d let this _weed_ win.  


  
Perhaps if you were crueler, you’d laugh in his face and tell him that he has no chance whether you show him mercy or not. Perhaps if you were kinder, you’d offer him a small smile and joke that he shouldn’t take it easy on you either.  


  
You find that you’re neither of those things and instead tell him that no intention of doing so in the first place.  


~

  
Time goes on. The days bleed into weeks and the weeks bleed into months and before you know it, a year has passed since your initial enlistment.  


  
Not much has happened since then. You spend a majority of your time alone, either training or thinking about training. The novelty of military life has worn off long ago and in it’s place a gentle mundanity has taken its place. You dream of open fields, wild flowers and home.  


  
Others dream of bloodshed, cold metal and cut napes. Yaeger is outspoken, unashamed to speak his truth. He longs for revenge and whilst others look down upon him for it, you can’t help but respect his determination (regardless of the suicidal ideation that has birthed it). Ackerman, from what you’ve observed, is only interested in protecting him from imminent death.  


  
Armin, however, lacks the same sense of clarity. He drifts behind Yaeger and Ackerman, fragile where they are hardened by death. He is a messy, leafy thing whilst they are delicately pointed with thick stems and high buds. They are flowers and he is a weed, they are soldiers and he is a liability so _why_ do they keep him around?  


  
You question them, over and over again. You get the feeling that he does too.  


~

  
He’s foolish in all of his great intelligence. Anyone as smart as him would have the common sense to realise that piling that many books on top of each other and carrying about would result in dropping them at least _once_ and yet he still does it.  


  
So it’s not a surprise when he knocks into your table and drops his stack. The spoon dipped into your bowl flattens against the side as you watch him scramble about like a rabbit caught in a trap.  


  
What a dumbass. So much for strategic brilliance.  


  
”Oh! I’m sorry...just give me a second, please. I’ll be out of your way in a few moments, just as soon as I—“ He collects his books, some being published works and others being for his own usage, with a number of miscellaneous loose sheets of paper falling from them.  


  
You watch him but it appears that he only becomes more nervous, more frantic, more irritating under your gaze. It’s as though with each paper he picks up, ten multiply in its place. Watching him exhausted you after a few moments so you decide to lend him a helping hand.  


  
Leaning down, you collect a few sheets of paper and pass them to him. His ears are tinged with an amusingly vibrant shade of pink. It’d endearing from anyone other than a scout-to-be.  


  
”—Thank you.” He smiles, in that excruciatingly polite way he does everything.  


  
He’s so polite, in fact, that it would come across as inauthentic from anyone other then himself because aside from being a complete weakling, Armin is also a breath of fresh air. He’s painstakingly honest, every emotion he feels playing out on the curve on his brow or quiver of his lips. You may not know him particularly well but your intuition tells you that he’s not the sort of person who relishes in pretence and pretty words. He’s polite, you surmise, because he’s not skilled enough to lie.  


  
”No problem.” You nod curtly and finish up the rest of your dinner.  


  
Pulling out your chair, you realise that there’s a single sheet of paper stuck to the leg of your chair. He must not have seen it in his dash to freedom. Frowning a little, you bend over and pick it up.  


  
_If I am to improve, then I’ll need to practise more frequently and with a larger variety of people. Although Eren helps me on occasion, I can’t constantly rely on him to monitor my progress when he has his own to focus on._  


  
You pause. Is this a diary? You don’t want to intrude and delve into things that do not concern you. Private things should remain private so perhaps it’s best that you simply return his paper without reading on.  


  
But there’s a clinical quality about his writing, something distinctly lacking—as though the passage is a formality. There’s nothing emotive and desperate, only simple observation. With that in mind, you continue on and pull the paper closer to your face.  


  
_Things I need to improve on:_  


  
_Coordination._  


  
_Defence (see page after this.)_  


  
_Offence._  


  
_Stamina._  


  
_Overall fitness and strength._  


  
You laugh at his silly little list because he truly hasn’t cut any corners. You wonder what he _hasn’t_ got to improve on, judging by the intricacy of the passages that follow—paired with few sketches of certain moves he wishes to learn. They’re detailed and precise and you find that alongside your haughty wonderment comes a newfound respect for boy. It’s watery and thin but it’s there nonetheless.  


  
You realise that despite his shortcomings, he’s truly dedicated to being the best that he can possibly be. Even if his strength lies within that impossibly keen mind of his, he’s willing to tackle his brittle exterior. It’s all so desperately systematic, so cleanly done, so _Armin_.  


  
You’ve always had a soft spot for the underdogs, you suppose.  


  
Perhaps that is why, when you return his stupid little notes to him, that you offer to train with him before sunset, a few times a week.  


  
”You don’t have to.” He smiles, although it is entirely apprehensive, with his brows furrowed in thought.  


  
He’s an over thinker to the core and it irritates you considerably. His mind is a scalpel, sharp and bright, and with it he feels the constant need to cut into people’s words with it—dissect them, syllable by syllable, until he is peering down at their bloody meaning and raw intent.  


  
It’s tiring to watch. You can’t even begin to imagine how it must tire him.  


  
”Do you not want me to?” You ask blandly, lips pressed flat up against each other.  


  
He blinks, as though in consideration of your question.  


  
”No,” He says, voice high and thoughtful. “—I’d appreciate the extra practise. I just...I wouldn’t want to waste your time.”  


  
You shoot him a strange look, all cocked brows and confused eyes. He reddens at the sight of it, cheeks dusting over childishly.  


  
”Why would it be a waste of my time? I need the practise just as much as you do.” You state plainly. He ruminates over it, taking a little a longer than you’d care for.  


  
Under the impression that he’s not interested in your offer, you turn on your heel. You had tried the whole Good Samaritan act and it failed. Perhaps, the extra work he puts in with Yaeger is enough to satiate him.  


  
”Wait!” He calls out. You turn your head, looking back at him. He’s smiling. It’s toothy and pretty and absurdly grateful. Didn’t you just tell him that you were doing this for yourself too?  


  
”—Does tomorrow work for you? Around sunset?” His voice is ridiculously weak, as though afraid of you rejecting his proposition when you are the one who thought of this all in first place.  


  
Naive little weed.  


  
”Of course. I’ll meet you at the mess hall and we go to the training grounds together.” You agree and walk off, feeling his eyes stick to you every step of the way.  


~

  
Armin, as expected, is _shit_ hand to hand combat.  


  
His arms are gangly and restless, constantly flailing about in an awkward attempt to regain the upper hand against his opponent. By no means are you the most talented of fighters and you don’t aim to be either. There is comfort to be found in mediocracy, safety and reassurance. All you need to do is pass. Then home is yours, once again.  


  
”Angle your foot out more,” You say, upon watching his travesty of a stance. It’s not that the physicality of it is particularly bad. No, his only flaw is the anxiousness he presents it with.  


  
His fists are weakly raised to protect his face, the bony splendour of his wrists bared freely. You wonder that if you put enough pressure on it, if it’ll snap in two.  


  
“—Raise your hands higher.” You tell him before making your move.  


  
He has an agile, feline way about him—it seems to be innate rather than practised. Practise. Practise. Practise. Everything about Armin is practised yet he still falls so short of what he wants to achieve.  


  
It makes you sad.  


  
Perhaps, that is why you train with him into the long hours of the night. By the time you’re finished, both of you are exhausted—heaving and panting and sweating and sighing.  


  
Armin, in all of his miserable exhaustion, tells you that he can still go on.  


  
”Just ten more minutes, that’s all—“  


  
”Don’t get ahead of yourself, Arlert. Overworking yourself is just as bad as not working at all,” You tell him through heavy, strained breaths. He shrinks in on himself like a kicked puppy. “—Go rest up. We can carry this on tomorrow.”  


  
If he wants to argue then he doesn’t, only thanking you for your time and making his way back to the boy’s barracks in silence.  


~

  
Armin sticks to his new training routine as though it’s prayer. He’s never late by a single second, always there and ready and wanting and willing—a sponge ready to soak up all you have to teach him. Where his enthusiasm once perturbed you, now is subtly refreshing.  


  
Weeks pass. You see something in Armin shift. He’s quieter and more confident, albeit in the gentle way he does everything. It’s strange how you have taught him to be instinctive when the phrase itself is a bizarre anthesis—like water and oil mixing and melding together.  


  
Nonetheless, you have. He learns the skill of instinct, of trusting your inhibitions and understanding that not everything can be analysed and picked apart and _dissected_. With each blow he lands upon your flesh, his mind begins to shut down a little more, his limbs starting to take the fluid form that only a soldier could possess. There’s still a strange, gangly way about him but you surmise it comes with his age. Some things can’t be helped.  


  
However, with this change remains your doubt. You can’t help but feel as though he’s holding back from hurting you. The weed, himself, believes he can threaten the integrity of a flower. It both insults and amuses you.  


  
”Is that—is that bruising?” He asks, leaning closer to your swollen jaw. You inch further away from him, turning your face so he can’t see the damage.  


  
He’s making so much progress. It’d be a shame if he suddenly regressed because of some misplaced sense of guilt. There are days where you beat him into the ground, pour soil upon him as though he is a body to buried and feel nothing for it. Armin is different. He’s softer, kinder, than you could ever dream of being.  


  
”People tend to bruise when they get kicked in the face.” You state matter-of-factly. He winces with a regretful twist of his lips.  


  
He shuffles closer again and you in response, you only increase the amount of distance between the two of you. You know he’s caught a glimpse of the purpling flesh, that he’s always had eager eyes that wander much too far, and that it’s best to wrap this up before he can fully descend into a fit of self-pity.  


  
Slender, tremulous fingers wrap themselves around your wrist. You freeze.  


  
”I’m sorry,” He murmurs, ashamedly. “—I shouldn’t have aimed so high up. You’re hurt now.”  


  
Armin, if he were a colour, would be yellow. A yellow as bright as his hair and somehow, even brighter. He’s pretty and meagre in the way that spring daffodils are, gorgeous and vast in the way that the setting sun is, vacant and unforgettable in the way that sand is as it slips through your fingers. He’s yellow, entirely so, and if you hadn’t beaten him so many times you’d think that his blood is yellow too alongside the heart that pumps it.  


  
He’s just so lovely. It upsets you and you can’t understand why.  


  
”Isn’t that the point?” You quirk a brow. He furrows his own. “—To hurt each other?”  


  
He says nothing, silent mortification ringing clearly through the air. His eyes are shrouded by his ridiculous bangs, mouth tightly clamped together—oh fuck, that’s his _thinking_ face. Nothing good ever comes from Armin losing himself in thought.  


  
”Military life is dangerous, Arlert. If I want to be a successful soldier, I’ll have to be able to handle a bruise,” You say and he snaps out of his annoying self-deprication. “—And anyways, aren’t the most famous war heroes the ones that have the worst injuries? Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll lose a leg, then I’ll be a superstar.”  


  
”You’re not funny.” He friend tersely, eyes jerking up to meet your own.  


  
“You’re not fun.” You counter.  


  
He sighs and runs a shaky hand through his hair. Armin, you’ve come to learn, is always shaking—always afraid—of something that can’t be seen, heard or felt by those around him. Occasionally, girlish curiosity overcomes you and you feel the need to ask why he is the way he is. Of course, you never go through with it.  


  
Private things should remain private.  


  
His entire body shakes with the weight of his sigh. He looks better with his hair pushed back, you think.  


  
”Would you... _do you_ want to hang out for a bit? We’ve finished pretty early today and I haven’t got anything to do. I know a nice spot in the woods, there’s a stream and—“  


  
He seems flustered, cheeks shining a dusty pink under the sheen on sweat sits on him. If it he were anyone other than Armin, you’d think he’d be trying to romance you. It’s because he’s Armin, so unequivocally nervous and innocent and childlike, that you know he isn’t.  


  
It’s mighty presumptuous of him to assume that you have no plans tonight, solely because he hasn’t.  


  
”No,” You tell him firmly. “—I’m busy.”  


  
A small, impish dejection seems to fill him. His shoulders hunch in, his mouth curves downwards, his eyes widen. You wonder if his face ever hurts from the sheer expression of it all.  


  
”Oh, okay.” He resigns, although it’s impossible to ignore the quiet determination he speaks with.  


~

  
You wake up earlier than the rest of the girls, ready to post off a letter to your father. It’s curt and more informational than anything, something to inform him on your progress as opposed to flowery girlishness you imagine the others write to their parents with.  


  
It would be nice, you think a little pensively, to be able to write with girlish indolence. Even if it’s just once. You want to tell them of funny little things that you’ve seen throughout the day, the silly rounds of gossip that fills the barracks during the late hours of the night, the moments that make you smile and the moments that make you seethe.  


  
Father isn’t interested in those sorts things, though. It’s best that you keep it formal—just the way he likes it.  


  
After the letter is posted, you decide that an early breakfast would do you some good. You arrive at the mess hall and get your bowl filled up with some oat-based slop before sitting at a table in far left corner of the room.  


  
There’s a dull sort of autumn sunshine, the sky is relatively clear today and the clouds are full and plush looking. There’s a fairly nice breeze, too. Today would be a good day to train with Armin. It’s been raining too heavily to get anything done recently, so you had better take advantage of the good weather while you still can—  


  
”[Y/N]?” Armin sits opposite you, a bowl in one hand and a book in the other.  


  
You watch him with a critical eye and disapproving frown. He simply smiles, a sliver of white tooth peeking from behind his lips. It infuriates you.  


  
”Yaeger and Ackerman are over there.” You point out lazily. The implication isn’t lost on stupidly smart Armin, who simply lets out a small although nervous huff of amusement.  


  
”I know. I wanted to sit with you today.”  


  
There’s a light silliness to his tone, something that revels in your annoyance. It both knocks the wind from your lungs and fills them to the point of breathlessness. If you had known he would follow you around like a pathetic stray pup, you would have handed him his notes and not uttered a word to him.  


  
A meaner, more mischievous side to you wants to tell him to _fuck off_ , purely to see his face fall and his shoulders squirm in discomfort. It’s too early for that though, you conclude, with your eyelids still aching with the desire to fall shut.  


  
“If you want me to talk to you then you’ve another thing coming. I planned to eat by myself and that’s what I’ll do.”  


  
He smiles.  


  
”That’s okay.”  


  
There’s a groan from inside you, high and whiny, that you have to physically restrain. It would only make him smile wider, smile prettier, and if you catch a glimpse of his teeth again you’ll knock them out of his mouth.  


  
The two of you eat in silence ~~and it’s kind of nice.~~  


~  


  
He rotates between the two of you. Breakfasts, generally, are spent in your company whilst lunches and dinners are eaten with his friendship group. Maybe, sometimes, if he eats quicker than the rest of his friends he’ll abandon their table for a while to come and sit at your one.  


  
The weed is treacherous, you muse to yourself. He is proud in his infidelity.  


  
“You should come sit at our table. You isolate yourself too much.” He offers gently, smiling at you with stupid sort of kindness. Your eyes roll up to meet his own.  


  
Armin is ignorant in his enthusiasm. He fails to understand that you and his friends are different distant worlds—you being a place of ice and cruelty and them being a place of warmth and security and protection. Why he wants to feel your coldness is lost upon you but it doesn’t confuse you more than the fact that he’d want his friends to feel it too.  


  
You’d never have a place with them and you have no interest in doing so either. They have deluded themselves into thinking they could be more than what they are—war heroes, the saviours of mankind trapped in bodies of stupid little children. The sentiment is sweet in all of its idealism but that’s _all_ that it is. Idealism.  


  
”I’d rather shit in my own hands and clap.”  


  
You spoon a soggy potato into your mouth and chew, staring the at Armin’s table critically.  


  
Yaeger is a bizarre, troubled thing. What he believes to be bravery is nothing less than boyish arrogance, an arrogance that he had bared for all to see on that first night of enlistment. He had spoken of the Titans with a laughable nonchalance—laughable because you had _seen_ the way his hands shook underneath his table as he feigned confidence.  


  
But that’s not what bothers you. What bothers you is his obsession, his lust, for brutality. In his delusion, he has forgotten that it was sheer luck that allowed him to survive the titan’s the first time. There is nothing to guarantee that he will be so lucky the second time.  


  
Armin scrunches his nose up at your words. You’ve come to learn that he’s absurdly sensitive, with a distinct distaste for crudeness. You don’t care enough to ask why.  


  
”I-I don’t doubt that for a second,” His smile wavers and then brightens. “—But, it’d be nice if you sat with us. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you talk to someone other than, well, myself.” His eyes lift to the ceiling in thought, as though recounting every person he’s seen you come into contact with.  


  
”Who are you? My mother?”  


  
”No, because if I was then I’d make you actually socialise with other human beings.” He doesn’t laugh but it’s there nonetheless, playing at his tone.  


  
It’s faintly beginning to grate on your nerves. You aim to resolve the issue by placing another spoonful of bland, watery soup in your mouth.  


  
Armin has no right to joke with you when he is the disruption in your routine. You were fine without him and his silly books and pathetic attempts at hand-to-hand combat. He’s a sweet thing, though, and perhaps that’s why it irritates you to have him so close. Perhaps, it’s nice to be disrupted once in a while.  


  
“Good thing you’re not then.” Looking over from the metal, you shoot him a mocking, toothy grin.  


  
He tenses, for a fraction of a second and you catch it all. There’s a strange, soft look of shock in his face and then—nothingness. He looks down, clears his throat and takes a sip of water.  


  
”You smiled.” He notes, clearly thinking out loud.  


  
Armin has a peculiar habit of absently voicing his thoughts. It’s nothing cruel or scandalous—more little observations or things that he notices in the moment. You’ve told him that it’s going to get him in trouble one of these days. Most probably with _you_ since he’s so adamant on following you around.  


  
You hate that you’ve let this weed and it’s detestably thick undergrowth get so close. Once a weed, always a weed—no matter how kind it’s smile is or how blue it’s eyes are.  


  
”Yeah?” You question lazily. If he’s going to waste your time by pointing out the obvious then he can haul himself back to his gaggle of idiots.  


  
You’re not here to make friends. You’re not here to please anyone or to _be_ pleased. That’s why you don’t understand Armin—why does he so brazenly pursue your friendship when you’ve made abundantly clear that you have no interest in his?  


  
He’s fragile and glass-like and clean-cut but so incredibly shameless in the way he plops himself down opposite you every morning—as though it’s what he was made to do. As though he wants to do it every day for the rest of his life.  


  
It’s terrible, how he so gleefully sets himself up for disappointment because you, as person, are ceaselessly disappointing. It is all you know how to do.  


  
”You...you have a nice smile.” He tells you slowly, meekly, as though the words are faintly embarrassing to him but he wants to get them out anyway.  


  
He says the words like he means them and, more so, like he wants you to believe them.  


~

  
_’I am satisfied with your report and the result of your training. However, I hope that you don’t forget what is expected of you because you are doing well and maintain this standard of work. I will be expecting another letter in two months, per usual._ ‘  


  
He always signs off with his name. Nothing more or less, no cutesy little pet named reserved for you, not even a _Love, Dad_. You conclude it is because he doesn’t love you. Not like he does his other daughters.  


  
You file the letter away, underneath a box that you narrowly squeezed below the bunk bed. It’s still no where near being full, with your correspondence being curt and limited.  


  
Resting your head on your pillow, you fall into a heavy, troubled sort of sleep. You dream of opens fields, yellow daffodils and home.  



End file.
